‘What have you got?’ Vermeer asks. ‘Really? Okay, send it to my phone.’ She hangs up. ‘Get in.’

‘What is it?’

‘The couple who sublet the flat to Huisman? Jansen’s found the poor battered wife’s new address. They might be able to shed some light on Huisman’s disappearing act.’

Lifestyle

We pull up to find the street itself is actually blocked off to traffic. A team of workers in hi-vis are clustered round a mini digger, so we have to park right at the end and walk. Kush stays in the car; Vermeer is quite clear on that point. I hope he doesn’t try the chewing-the-steering-wheel trick again. We reach the house number Jansen had got for us, the place the couple who’d illegally sublet their council house to Huisman were now staying. The small digger starts tearing at the road with its mechanical claw; it’s almost poetic in a primal machine kind of way.

‘According to Jansen, Gerard and Sharon van Baalen got divorced and this is the property Sharon was subsequently assigned.’

‘How much you want to bet they’re both living there now?’

As we pass the mechanical claw it scrapes along the concrete. The noise is ear-splitting.

‘I do the talking, got that?’ Vermeer shouts at me as we’re reaching the front door. She keeps her finger on the bell until there’s movement. The man opening the door is classic benefit cheat; it’s written all over his tracksuit bottoms, the bulge of his stomach, the piggy eyes, the food stain on his T-shirt, and the shit-faced attitude. To say nothing of the expensive trainers.

‘Gerard van Baalen?’

The acknowledgement is minimal so Vermeer invites herself in. The man looks for a second like he’s going to complain but then steps aside. At the back of the house a living room is dominated by a massive TV screen. I’ve never seen one so big. On it some kind of zombie video game is paused, a head just in the first stages of what is going to be a gory, messy explosion. By the sofa opposite it are a few empty cans of Amstel in a thicket of bottles which once contained much stronger stuff. Breakfast of champions. Paid for by the state, no less. There’s an overpowering scent of chemical air freshener. All the electronics are plugged into an extension cord that snakes across the scuffed lino floor.

Vermeer pulls out a photo of Huisman and holds it up for the man to see.

‘You know him, right?’

You can tell he’s used to dealing with authority; his stare’s a bit zombie-like itself. And he can hold it for an impressive amount of time, especially given Vermeer’s intensity. Or maybe he’s just very well medicated. Finally he breaks his eyes away and glances at the photo, but remains silent.